


Path of Righteousness

by Be_Right_Back



Category: DUMAS Alexandre - Works, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (I plan on rewriting the whole series fyi), (number of chapters susceptible to change), (this tag section is gonna grow), Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brotherly Love, Crisis of Faith, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, God Is Real And He Very Much Impacts The Story (Sorta), Huguenots, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Protestants, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, lots of em - Freeform, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_Right_Back/pseuds/Be_Right_Back
Summary: Finding out about the Queen's pregnancy proves too much for Aramis to handle, and he quickly realizes that he is at the crossroads. With his sanity, his honor and the lives of everyone he loves at stake, his only option is the biggest leap of faith that God has ever asked of him. For better or for worse, he cannot remain the man he has always been.
Relationships: (Only Canon Major Relationships), Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Aramis | René d'Herblay, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux
Comments: 67
Kudos: 45





	1. Drink, be drunk and vomit. (Jeremiah 25:27)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a weird AU, but I plan on making it worth your while. The basic premise is that Aramis feels the need to either grow closer to God or completely run away from Him after he learns his treason has had (*gasp*) consequences - and basically his decision will change a whole bunch of stuff, and things will butterfly-effect their way from there. 
> 
> I also felt that Protestants weren't represented nearly enough in the series, and I wanted to correct that. I am not taking a side between Protestants and Catholics though - denominations being mostly lousy - I'm taking the side of the Bible. Don't worry, it's not only religious stuff if that's not your cup of tea. Plenty of good (b)romance and whump to go around as well!

_Pregnant._

The Queen is pregnant with her first child, the possible heir to the throne of France if – God forbid – it should be a boy like she predicts. The child of Aramis. His son, or his daughter, the illegitimate fruit of a forbidden and treasonous union whose mere existence could be all the proof required to condemn him, her Highness and Athos to the gallows. 

He is such an utter fool. 

And yet, _yet,_ his mind keeps coming back to that one moment when her eyes met his, that breathtaking second when she leaned in for the kiss and knocked the air from his lungs, the agonizing minutes it took to get rid of all their clothes, both of them impatient but scared and reluctant to rush things. He can still remember each small sound she made, the hushed whispers of broken French blending with sweet Spanish so rarely used. He can picture each silky curl of her beautiful hair, each delicate eyelash, each smooth curve of her perfect body. The knowledge that they were creating a new _life_ that night in the convent casts quite a different – and brighter – light on the memory of their mingled breaths, their intertwined fingers and their gazes locked together in the most intimate of embraces. 

He is such an utter fool and he cannot bring himself to regret it, which just might be worse. Plastering a convincing apologetic grin on his face, he excuses himself the second his feet touch the ground of the garrison. 

"I need a drink to mend my broken heart," he explains cheerfully to his friends as his soul shatters. Porthos and d'Artagnan listen without the faintest trace of suspicion on their faces, only blatant amusement. "It seems I'm forever doomed to chase after women too high for me to reach. I hope Charlotte won't forget this lowly soldier." 

Athos is facing away, his shoulders stiff. With anger, with rage, with grief? Aramis couldn't begin to guess. 

D'Artagnan laughs. It does come out a little bitter and Aramis knows why, and he realizes just how callous his words may have sounded to the ears of their young lovesick Gascon. Thankfully the boy has a heart the size of the Louvre and doesn't appear to be upset with him. 

"I can sympathize with that," d'Artagnan says, dismounting and carding his fingers through his dark mop of hair. "Fancy some company while you drink? I know we said our thing to get through life was honor, but overindulging in alcohol doesn't sound half bad. And besides, we've got a royal announcement to celebrate." 

Athos is taking his stallion away, still careful not to look at any of them. Aramis feels his lungs constrict and grow brittle, like they are ready to splinter and crack with his next breath. For the life of him Aramis doesn't know how he manages to face Porthos and d'Artagnan and keep up his charade. 

"Ah, I'm afraid I shall have to turn down your generous offer, my friend," he says, grinning. "I plan on visiting _someone_ first, and then I think I might go to confession. Unless you wish to accompany me?" 

D'Artagnan shakes his head quickly, his eyes wide. 

"Yeah, no. I'll definitely pass." Then he pats Porthos on the shoulder adds something that makes Aramis scream, if only on the inside. "We'll just go on our own then, maybe get Athos to join us. You'll be fine, right? Since, you know—" The young man waggles his eyebrows "—you're already seeing _someone?"_

Aramis cuffs him lightly on the head, chuckling. 

"Have you ever known me not to be?" 

And then he turns and walks away before either of them have the time to realize just how ridiculous the question is. He can dimly make out Porthos calling Athos, asking if he wants to join in on the drinking. Aramis doesn't stick around to hear the answer. 

He hastens his pace instead, strides, jogs, runs into the streets of Paris until he's well out of sight of the garrison and any of the places he usually visits. Words dance in his mind, float before his eyes, a constant warning and reminder of his sin and delight.

Good _God,_ the Queen is _pregnant._ _He,_ René d'Herblay of Aramitz, the son of a Spanish whore and a man of the lowest class of French petty nobility, _impregnated_ the _Queen of France._ After failing to save the mother of his dead child, after losing the love of the only other woman who ever had a real place in his heart – losing said love to the _Cardinal,_ of all people – Aramis has impregnated the Queen. 

_Anne._

Ana Maria Mauricia. 

A daughter of the house of Habsburg, a Spanish Princess, an Austrian Archduchess and the Queen of France, wife to a King, sister to another, related – through law or by blood – to every single member of the European ruling houses. 

And he has slept with her. 

And she is having his baby.

Aramis dives into the first inn he can find, puts on another grin and orders more wine than any sane man should ever consider drinking. When the barmaid – the pretty barmaid, but goodness the very thought of flirting makes him ill – frowns at him and asks if he's sure, he keeps on grinning. 

"My sweet lady, I'm not in the habit of making poorly thought-through decisions," he says charmingly. 

The place is of low reputation, so she doesn't refuse to serve him. He falls asleep halfway through the fourth bottle and doesn't even notice. 

* * *

"Wake up," a low voice commands, making Aramis groan. 

He knows that voice, and he doesn't feel very inclined to obey it. If the pounding in his head and the weight of his eyelids is of any indication, he's either in trouble or trying to escape it. 

"You're both," Athos corrects dryly. "Wake up." 

Aramis inwardly swears – or at least he tries to and it comes out anyway, like his previous train of thought. He cracks open an eyelid – a mistake – and painstakingly raises his head to meet Athos' stare, sighing through a tightly clenched jaw. The light feels like he's been shot in the eyes and also makes his head throb twice as hard, and the pungent smell of alcohol and sweat characteristic of most taverns has him heaving. The damned noise doesn't help either. 

"Wh'd'y wan', Ath's?" He slurs, glaring as best as he's able. 

It isn't fair to be annoyed at Athos but he can't help it at the moment. He'll apologize when the crushing guilt of implicating one of his best friends into the biggest mess he's ever created resurfaces. 

Athos lifts an eyebrow – a snob, arrogant gesture he probably picked up from being raised a comte – and briefly glances at the empty bottles and wine-stained table. 

"I have been looking for you for hours, you know," he remarks instead on answering the actual question. "A little gratitude wouldn't go amiss." 

Aramis might just break down crying if he tries to say thanks, so he just gives a half-hearted shrug and lowers his head back into his arms. 

"S'rry you wasted so much time," he mumbles, the words coming out a bit more easily. "What d'you want?" 

"I'm here to take you home before somebody notices that one of the King's musketeers is sitting alone in a disreputable inn, too drunk to tell up from down, carrying a purse that is not quite empty yet and weapons that could be sold for a good price." 

"Bit hypocritical coming from you, don't you think?" Aramis quips, still not looking at Athos. It's not like he can. At this particular instant he is, in fact, incapable of telling up from down. 

_"Aramis,"_ Athos says, and there are so many different things being said with just that name that Aramis gives up and allows his friend to pull him to his feet. 

He sways a bit but Athos won't let him fall, that part being nothing new. Clinging gratefully to the offered shoulder, Aramis stumbles out of the place without a second glance to the half-emptied bottle still on the table and almost moans in relief when the cool night air hits his face. Alcohol really is his least favorite kind of hot and bothered. 

It's quite dark already. The stars are shining. They're breathtaking, as always. Distant too. 

_Like my Queen_ is such a maudlin and cliché line that Aramis forbids himself from thinking it. 

"Porthos and d'Artagnan?" He asks without being certain he wants to know.

"Already back at the garrison and probably long asleep. They're fine." 

_You're fine_ goes unsaid. 

The night is moonless and empty, all of Paris safely tucked away into beds, holes, whorehouses and salons. There's no one to see him, pity him, condemn him. More a curse than a blessing perhaps, since a little condemnation might just be what he needs. A punch to the face and a kick in the gut wouldn't be so bad either.

"Your coping mechanisms are useless," Aramis mutters after a while. "I feel like crap." 

"Physically, mentally, or emotionally?" Athos inquires. 

_"Yes."_

There is a pause. 

"I could have told you that," Athos finally says, and there's no judgment or bitterness in his voice, and not even disapproval.

Aramis gasps out a breathless laugh. More like a giggle, actually, since he is still very much inebriated. 

"Where are we going?" He asks, because dwelling on the depth of his feelings for the frankly amazing friend currently half-carrying his drunk arse is going to make him tear up. 

"My place. Closer than yours, and obviously better than the garrison. Can't you tell?"

"My head is spinning, my vision blurring and my stomach lurching," Aramis admits. 

"I know," Athos scoffs. "You have a belly full of poison and nothing else. It's like a horse trampled you and then dragged you around for five miles, and your entire life is a monument to your stupidity and shame." He takes a step to the right to avoid a loose cobblestone, pulling Aramis closer. "If you feel the need to throw up, do tell. I want to have time to push you away." 

Aramis hasn't the energy to feel offended by any of it. It's not like he deserves anything else. It's not like Athos actually means to hurt him either. He shivers in the cool evening air and huddles closer to the man. 

"I think I'll leave the alcohol to you and stick to brothels, target practice and fistfights with Red Guards," he manages to say as they reach a staircase and make their way up to a locked door. 

Athos leaves him to lean on the wall while he fishes out the key and gives him a meaningful look. 

"Brothels? That's the only place I didn't look tonight," he says softly.

Aramis' breath hitches. Athos wordlessly pulls him inside and gets him to sit on the bed before turning his attention back to the door and carefully locking it up. He then goes to the fireplace, adds some wood from the nearby pile and lights it up. Once it's done, he reaches for a candle, lights it up as well and set it on the table, never once directly looking at Aramis. 

He's stalling, of course. Maybe it's just as well. Once he has run out of things to do, he just stands it the middle of the room facing the fire. Silent. 

"I'm sorry," Aramis says at last, because this is the only thing that will get them to _talk._

He also currently has very few filters. 

"What for?" 

It's a cheap deflection and they are both aware of that. 

"I'm not giving you a list," Aramis bites out, perhaps too harshly. It doesn't matter. Athos knows he's not angry with him, only with himself. 

There is a shrug and a sigh. 

"You should get some sleep," the swordsman points out, still looking at the flames. "Treville will not be happy if you're too exhausted to function tomorrow." 

It's an elegant way to say he doesn't want to have a discussion, Aramis realizes, and a clever way to point out his massive impending hangover without being indelicate. Yet as much as he admires elegance in every other matter, Aramis is still a marksman. _He_ does precise and to the point. 

"I'm the idiot who slept with the most important woman in all the land and got her pregnant, there is a good chance I will hang for my inability to keep it in my pants, I made you complicit by not taking the time to close a stupid door, and I'm likely to throw up in your bedroom before long," he enumerates, watching Athos tense with each syllable. "Have the decency to look at me and yell, _please."_

That at least gets a reaction out of the other man. His friend turns, his face pale and his jaw clenched, and there's still no way to tell what he's thinking or feeling. Bracing himself, Aramis looks into his eyes and refuses to turn away. They are clear and piercing, and unflinching. 

"You are an utter fool," Athos finally breathes out, closing the distance between them with two swift strides, "brother."

Aramis crumbles, and his brother is there to catch him. 

He accepts the embrace without returning it and curls up against Athos' chest, a shuddering, sweaty, drunk wreck. Too weary to cry he closes his eyes and breathes in, finding comfort in the familiar smell and the knowledge that his world isn't crumbling down tonight – even if it may do so in the near future. Still he can't keep a few wounded sounds from escaping him, though they sound more like broken hiccups than actual whimpers. 

Athos shushes him gently, carding a still gloved hand through his curls. 

"Told you to yell," Aramis mumbles, his voice muffled by the clothes between them. "That's not how you do it."

Athos huffs, his chest rumbling as he does. Aramis doesn't look up when he starts speaking. 

"I'm angry beyond words, I'm frankly astonished by your idiocy, I wonder why it is you of all people that God saw fit to give me as a brother, and I have half a mind to wipe the ground with you in the courtyard tomorrow. Happy?" 

"Very," Aramis whispers. "And please do." 

Athos shakes his head and slowly lets go of Aramis, although he doesn't force him to move from where he's resting against his chest. 

"You should go to sleep. The bucket is right here if… when you need it." 

"Hmm," Aramis acknowledges, finally leaning back. 

He quickly strips down to his pants and shirt and lies down near the edge of the bed, near the _bucket._

"You coming?" He asks Athos, turning his back to the remaining space on the mattress.

He gets a shake of the head and a vague gesture towards the table and chair as his answer.

"I'll read for some time first, don't mind me." 

"Alright," Aramis says, and he sighs and lets exhaustion claim him. 

Athos watches him fall asleep with a heavy heart and heavier thoughts. _What an_ _idiot_. He hasn't told Aramis precisely why he is so angry and so stunned by his lack of common sense, leaving him to make his own deductions, but perhaps he should explain himself more in the morning. 

If he knows anything about his brother's heart Aramis will assume that all of Athos' anger stems from the Queen's pregnancy, when that's not even half of the actual reason for his current desire to strangle the bloody imbecile lying fast asleep in front of him. Right now he's much angrier about Aramis losing himself to wine and carelessness, seeking oblivion in a misguided effort to cover his sins. He could have been attacked, could have said stupid things aloud, could have made himself seriously sick. 

Athos is all too familiar with wine and foolishness not to be angry. And while Aramis was right to call him out on his hypocrisy, he still feels justified in his want to smack some sense into that rock-headed _cretin_ . All these years, all these secrets shared, all these truths unveiled and yet Aramis would choose to imitate _him_ of all people in the hour of his greatest despair? 

It's unparalleled stupidity, and Athos cannot accept it. He stares at his brother – his charming, witty, courageous brother with half a brain and a heart three sizes too big – and he finds himself praying to God. He hasn't prayed in years so he is sure he's not doing it right, but the jeweled crucifix around Aramis' neck gives him all the motivation he needs to keep going. 

_If you're out there listening,_ he says silently, as there is no way in hell nor in heaven that he'll actually voice the words, _take care of him. I'm very much unqualified, and I'm about the worst example he could pick._

Later, when Aramis rolls over and aims – quite accurately, which is impressive – for the bucket, he finishes his prayer. As he holds Aramis by the shoulders while the other musketeer shudders and gags and expels the contents of his entire digestive tract, Athos looks up to the ceiling, imagines he can see the sky and sends one last request to the God of his brother.

 _Protect him. After all,_ he continues rather blasphemously, _we all know he's always been your favorite._

* * *

Aramis wakes up with the mother of all headaches and nauseous enough to believe for a moment that he's on a boat. He keeps his eyes closed and groan, displeased to have been returned to awareness in a world where being aware _sucks._ Next to him, somebody shifts in their sleep. It's got to be Athos, since Aramis' memories of last night end with his friend holding him above a bucket rapidly filling with wine-red vomit. 

Well _good._ Athos isn't a particularly early riser, so he figures he still has some time to rest before he gets dragged to the garrison by a grumbling swordsman. 

"I'm awake," Athos mumbles, and Aramis opens one eye and realizes it's true. 

_Great._

"Hnnnn," Aramis eloquently complains. "Pretend you're not," _so I can go back to oblivion._

No such luck. Athos gets out of the bed – easy to tell by the way the mattress shifts – and goes to fetch the bucket full of really, _really_ cold water that's waiting for them on the window. He probably filled it last night, or really early this morning. The sound of splashes and annoyed grunts – it's really cold water – reliably informs Aramis that Athos is washing his face. It's followed by a rustle of cloth and the clanking of metal, the telltale indication that a uniform is being put on over the rumpled shirt and pants. 

Aramis pictures his own pauldron, hat, boots and cloak lying somewhere in the room, and he sighs and buries his head deeper into the pillow. 

"Get up," Athos commands. He's not asking, since he never does. He's very much commanding. 

Aramis hates following orders. 

"Soon," he answers noncommittally, earning himself a splash of freezing water that makes him yelp and get his hair all wet. Sitting up – not too fast, his head is still spinning – he glares. _"A_ _thos,_ seriously?" 

The other shrugs, the ghost of a smug smile playing on his lips. 

"Come on. The Captain is already going to be mad at me for arriving with a hungover you in tow. I really don't fancy being near him if we manage to be late as well." 

That's fair enough, Aramis supposes. He swings his leg over the edge of the mattress with a huff and another groan – everything aches, which is not a surprise – and stands up. The room is dancing and the furniture swims in and out of focus. Dragging himself to the bucket of really cold water, Aramis snatches the clean towel Athos is offering him and scrubs his face. 

_Ugh_ is the only sound that can properly convey how he's feeling right now. _Ugh_ and maybe _merde._

Thank God for hats, by the way, because there's no comb in here – _obviously –_ and his hair is a mess. 

"Goodness Athos," he mutters while strapping on his pauldron, "how do you even _manage?"_

"You've been hungover before," Athos points out, surprised. 

"Never that much," he says, and he's fairly certain it's the truth. When he's done putting on his uniform, he turns to Athos, remembering something. "How am I explaining this to Porthos and d'Artagnan?" 

At Athos' arched eyebrow, he elaborates. 

"I said I was just having a drink, seeing _someone_ and then going to church."

Athos shrugs. 

"Just say you ended up drinking more than expected and that you're regretting it. No need to lie." 

Aramis' cheeks burn with the offered advice, and he averts his gaze. 

"Not more than _expected,_ I very much intended to get that drunk. And I lied already," he points out, fidgeting with his hat as Athos leads them out. 

He gets a pat in the back and a wry look. 

"Haven't we all? Come on, let's go." 

They make their way to the garrison in silence, nodding politely when they encounter other musketeers going in the opposite direction, having already been dispatched for the day. When the two of them arrive at the gate, Aramis reaches out and grabs Athos by the shoulder. He squeezes, looking straight into his friend's eyes. 

"Thanks," he says, terribly grateful. 

Athos looks at his hand, and then at him. 

"Don't mention it," he finally replies. It's much more than just the common platitude, since there is every reason to actually mean the words. "And we're still training with swords until you're face down in the dirt and begging to get your arse kicked in hand-to-hand combat instead."

The sober, rested, usual Aramis would whine and theatrically ask for mercy. Today's Aramis just nods and gives his friend a pat on the shoulder instead, and they enter the garrison together. Porthos and d'Artagnan are waiting for them at their table, grinning brightly and waving. 

"Look who's finally gracing us with their presence," Porthos exclaims, chuckling. "What happened, did confession take all night?" 

Athos shrugs and gives Aramis a pointed look, daring him to contradict him on what he's about to say. 

"Our marksman is just more of a light weight than he cares to admit," the dear comte jibes with all the superiority of his insufferable breed. "Although you didn't hear it from me, of course."

It gets enough of a laugh out of Porthos and d'Artagnan for Aramis to let it pass. What's more, he can feel Treville's insistent stare above his head and he's not too anxious to turn around or do anything that might get him called to the office upstairs. D'Artagnan nudges him in the chest, smiling, and winks at him. 

"Now I know why you won't drink with me. It'd be pretty embarrassing if the youngest musketeer around managed to drink a veteran like you under the table," he teases, before yelping when Aramis gives him a good swat on the head and ruffles his barely tame hair. "Hey, don't do that! Wait!"

"Porthos, d'Artagnan," Treville's voice interrupts from above, "I need two Musketeers to escort a marquis out of Paris. He's a courtier returning to his land for some important matter on behalf of the King. Get your horses ready." 

"Why us?" Porthos dares to question, which isn't very wise. 

"Because," Treville answers. The fact that he doesn't snap means he's in a relatively good mood. "Go, don't keep him waiting." 

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchange rueful glances with Athos and Aramis and drag their feet to the stables, muttering under their breaths. Treville looks at them go with an arched eyebrow of his own – who knows, maybe Aramis was wrong, maybe Athos picked it up from him and not some lofty noblemen – and beckons his lieutenant with a single finger. 

"I want to talk to you," he tells Athos from above, before giving Aramis a pointed look. "You, go get breakfast. Nausea and hunger don't mix well." 

Athos snorts and climbs up the stairs, Aramis glaring at his back as he does. It can be frustrating, having so perceptive a commanding officer. He walks to the kitchen where other musketeers are already fetching their own food. A few feet above him, Athos is leaning against the balcony railing next to the Captain. 

"Do I want to know?" Treville asks, nodding to the courtyard and the table Aramis has just vacated.

Athos raises both eyebrows and looks at his Captain, surprised. 

"No," he says without hesitation. 

_He_ would rather not know. 

"Is it that bad?" 

"Woman trouble," Athos explains, rubbing his forehead. He tips his head back and sighs. "How did you manage to notice it from up here?"

Treville smiles knowingly, pleased with himself. 

"There's often something to it when the four of you don't arrive together. And you coming in with him certainly was a clue." 

Athos rolls his eyes. Of course. 

"Is that why you only sent Porthos and d'Artagnan to escort that marquis?" 

The two of them are done saddling their horses and they pass through the courtyard and ride away, happily chatting. They are perfectly oblivious, which Athos would envy if he wasn't aware that Aramis cannot handle his secret on his own. Treville is still smiling, and this time his usually cold blue eyes sparkle mischievously. 

"Partly. The truth is you and Aramis look too much like gentlemen and I wanted to annoy the man. He's an arrogant ass who cannot stand to be around commoners." 

Then sending a young Gascon farm boy and a dark skinned soldier with rugged pirate looks and scars is a good way to peeve him, that's certain. It isn't very subtle but Treville doesn't like politics. Chuckling, Athos takes off his hat and plays with the feather, a habit he picked up from Aramis. 

"They will do fine, it takes more than a few haughty nobles to get under their hides. Thank you, in any case. Aramis wouldn't have taken taunts with his usual level of charm and humour, and I don't fancy being stuck between a pompous idiot and an acerbic one."

Treville certainly agrees. 

"I don't have any urgent business requiring you. Just train, and do try to knock some sense into our romantic hero. He can't make a habit of this." 

The fact that Athos has is left unsaid, because they both know it's different. Aramis is different. He bounces back, he doesn't wallow. Athos nods. 

"I was already planning on it. But don't get mad when he spends the remainder of the week complaining about bruises," he says over his shoulder as he makes his way down the staircase. 

He can feel Treville's gaze on him as he goes, but he doesn't acknowledge it.

"Athos," the Captain says at last, when he's on the bottom step, "he will be alright." 

The particular inflection of his voice could mean it was a question, but Athos refuses to understand it as such. That way he doesn't have to admit that he doesn't know the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I'm perfectly aware that Athos' room doesn't have a fireplace and a real table, and that his bed is wayyyyyy too small to accommodate two grown men, as shown in a couple of episodes. Do I care? No. This is going to be my only deviation from canon that isn't caused by the story's plot. There. In this world Constance went to his rooms to deliver him some shirts or something and she had a fit and made him change his furniture or move out. Tada.
> 
> (My brother suggested that I let Athos sleep on the floor or in the chair, but that wasn't going to happen. Look at the poor man's face! The guy needs his sleep!)


	2. Faithful are the wounds of a friend. (Proverbs 27:6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is sparring, obliviousness, and things are still not okay.

After his brief discussion with Treville, Athos heads to the mess and finds Aramis sitting there, chatting with Serge and slowly eating bread and cheese. There is a cup full of water sitting untouched next to his plate. 

"Drink that," he orders knowingly, "or you'll be even sicker from the thirst and you'll throw up everything the second my boot collides with your stomach." 

Serge snorts and Aramis graces their cook with a scathing - albeit diminished from being half-lidded - glare. 

"Did you get the Almighty Father's blessing to beat me to a pulp?" He then asks Athos.

"If you're referring to the Captain, then yes. As for God, I'm sure He'll forgive me. Revelry is a sin anyway."

Aramis glares some more, combing through his unruly hair with a gloved hand while Serge chuckles. 

"It wasn't _revelry,"_ he mutters, drinking the water. "Just— Never mind." Deflating, he puts on his hat with a sigh and fiddles with the brim. "Let's go. It's not like you're wrong."

In truth, Aramis is looking forward to the fight and they both know it. It's what they discussed last night, practice and brawls are better coping mechanisms than alcohol. They are soon facing each other, uniforms discarded and swords drawn, a few of their comrades watching them with interest. 

"Don't go easy on me," Aramis asks of his friend once they have warmed up, the better swordsman nodding with an amused look. 

"I would never," Athos replies, and then he lunges forward. 

Aramis immediately regrets his request. His head feels like it's going to explode every time he parries. _Clang, clash, woosh,_ the cacophony of the steel blades tears through his eardrums and drills a hole in his still dazed brain, and it hurts. _Damn._ The thrill of the fight that eclipses everything else and the blood rushing through his limbs make it almost worth it, but it still remains that he cannot compete with Athos in matters of swordsmanship, not even on good days, and that a sturdy leather boot does collide with his stomach sooner than he would have anticipated. Arthur and Corentin, two of the nearest men, laugh at his expense when he gets knocked to the ground with a grunt. 

"What's the matter, Aramis? You're not usually that soft," Arthur teases, leaning on one of the wooden post supporting Treville's balcony. 

Corentin has his arms crossed and his back resting against the wall, grinning. 

"It's from spending so much time lazing about the palace for parades and receptions. Downside of being one of their Majesties' favorite toy soldiers."

Athos is waiting for Aramis to stand up – not going to happen any time soon, he doesn't want to throw up – and he joins in on the mocking with a devious look. He has been waiting for this since last night, and while it might be a sin to hurt a foe at their weakest, the same can't be said of a friend. It's called _education._ And maybe payback too, since Aramis did make a nuisance of himself and then took most of the bed, like the cat he is. 

"Standing at attention is not the problem. The delicate food that many of the court ladies sneak him when he's on duty, however…" 

Aramis gets onto his knees and breathes through his nose, still not sure whether or not he's about to retch. He would protest that he doesn't eat when standing guard - which is mostly true since he generally gives the food to Porthos - but then he'd have to open his mouth, and bile might come out. Being drunk and pitiful in front of Athos is one thing. He is not covering himself in ridicule in front of anybody else. 

"Oh, I bet they come in swarms too."

"Poor naive women, all waiting for a chance to impress the dashing, invincible musketeer. They'd be so disappointed if they could see you right now," Corentin laughs. 

Aramis scoffs from his spot in the dirt.

"Alright, did Athos pay you? I don't recall making any comments the last time Porthos used somebody here to scrub the courtyard."

"It's not the same thing," François chimes in from where he's sitting, next to the stairs. "We don't often get to see one of you three in the dust." 

François is a relatively young recruit who was commissioned maybe a year and a half before d'Artagnan, and he manages to be even more cocky than their Gascon friend, if such thing is possible, and sadly less prone to hero-worship. Athos finally gets tired of waiting and pulls Aramis to his feet, pushing the hilt of his sword into his free hand.

"Do you intend to spend all morning chatting, or do you plan on giving me your attention anytime soon?" 

"You're the one who encouraged them!" Aramis says indignantly. 

"Quite right," Athos nods, and then he lunges again.

Aramis grits his teeth and parries. This _is_ payback. 

"François, join in," Athos commands as he thrusts his blade towards Aramis' shoulder, using the distraction to draw his main gauche. "You could use the training too." 

"Which one of you am I fighting against?" 

"Him." 

"Now that's not fai— Hey!" Aramis yelps, his objection is cut off by Athos' sword arching toward his chest. He jumps back, panting and inclined to swear. "François has got a swordbreaker as a parrying dagger," he tries one more time to protest as he parries the next blow.

"They don't actually break swords," Athos retorts, and Aramis is left facing two non hungover musketeers.

Arthur helpfully tosses him a second sword before he can get punched by a pommel. It doesn't do him much good, in the end, because François is almost as good as d'Artagnan, who in turn will probably surpass Athos one day. Meanwhile Aramis is a marksman, which makes for a very unbalanced fight. Unsurprising perhaps, given all the reasons he has given people for wanting to punch him, but certainly not as refreshing as the fight was at first.

"I didn't agree to this," Aramis gasps as one of the four blades he's up against barely misses his chin and scratches his cheek. "Athos, watch the beard!"

"You could use being less vain." Athos' dry voice could make the Cardinal flinch. "And we could use a rest from your amorous conquests."

That sends their fellow musketeers cackling. For a brief moment Aramis feels like laughing too, until he remembers that this isn't just a jest. Athos doesn't leave him enough time to dwell on the accusation, throwing another blow and flashing a small smile. François is even harder to keep up with, his swordbreaker making it impossible to even dream of landing a hit. He'll have to get himself one of these one day. 

"God," he pants after he feels the skin on his left cheekbone split, "I hate you." 

"Are you talking to us, or to the Lord?" Athos questions as he kicks him in the shin. 

Aramis' answer is a huff. 

* * *

Soon they are done and Aramis is once more lying on the ground, this time fighting a headache. Arthur and Corentin start chuckling far too loudly for his sensitive ears.

"Seriously, what did you do this time?" Arthur asks, still chuckling, while François pulls Aramis to his feet.

"No idea w— what you're talking about," Aramis smiles, too out of breath to laugh too. It feels genuine enough to him. "Don't you all have work to do somewhere?" 

"No," Corentin says with a smirk. "Even us ordinary musketeers get to laze about sometimes." 

"Clearly too much," Athos comments, amused as well. "Your form was sloppier than usual, François. How come?" 

"I was going easy on Aramis," François replies with mock indignation. "The man clearly had too much to drink not too long ago."

"Next time don't. That was the whole point." 

Aramis basks in the familiar banter and light-hearted taunts. It is structure, an anchor and a rudder of the same nature that what Athos provided last night. Leaning down to rest his hands on his knees, he manages to wheeze out a chuckle and wipes the sweat from his brow, feeling spent but less nauseous. 

"You're all impossible," he groans. 

Athos claps him on the shoulder, his eyes shining with mirth. 

"We're done." 

"How did I do?" Aramis asks, returning the gesture. 

"You were less pathetic than I expected," Athos praises lightly. 

They get their discarded cloaks and pauldrons and make their way to one of the usually empty rooms of the garrison, on the second floor. Aramis lays his uniform and weapons on one of the chairs while Athos dumps everything on a nearby table. They both sit and share a wry look, Aramis pushing his wet hair out of the way when Athos turns to face him properly. He waits, unsure of whether or not they're about to talk.

"You're good?" Athos inquires. 

Oh, so they _are_ talking. 

"Yeah, thanks," Aramis answers. "It helped," he adds honestly.

He is soon going to be very sore though, and then he might not feel so thankful, but for now he is really glad. Athos studies him for a good while, the renewed silence neither actually awkward nor particularly welcome. Aramis sighs and leans back against his seat. He knows there are things that weren't addressed yesterday and still need to be said, but finding the words proves difficult and unpleasant.

"I'm sure he's mine," he finally decides to say. "She told me."

Athos nods.

"I had guessed as much."

Aramis wouldn't have run to a tavern and attempted to drink himself numb otherwise, Athos is certain of that. The action was so very out of character for the man who didn't touch a drop after he was forced to kill a man he used to love as a brother that he knew it had to have come from something more than a mere suspicion of fatherhood. 

"You do know that perceptiveness of yours can be obnoxious, right?" Aramis teases half-heartedly. It earns him an unimpressed look. "Sorry," he huffs, "I'm the obnoxious one."

Athos is not interested in picking apart their respective character flaws. He really has nothing on Aramis on virtue. He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles before wearily looking up. Staring at the ceiling, he sighs. 

"Let's pray the baby inherits the good looks of its mother." 

"You don't pray," Aramis points out, studying the ceiling as well. 

"Sometimes," Athos corrects, unwilling to tell him about his one-sided conversation with the Almighty of last night. "Considering the mess we're in, it can hardly hurt."

He says it as neutrally as he can, but it still sounds a touch accusatory, even to his own ears. He inwardly winces, keeping his face straight. Aramis still has his eyes riveted on the heavy wooden beams. It is his turn to sigh.

"She's the one who kissed me, you know." 

_Where did that come from?_

"So you've told me several times in the last three months. It doesn't make it any better." 

It really, really doesn't.

"Sorry." 

Athos can't help but notice the hesitant tone, the hint of shame detectable despite the concise answer. He lowers his head and stares at Aramis until his friend meets his gaze. 

"What's done is done. But don't ever use that as an excuse to see her in private again." 

"I'm not _that_ stupid," Aramis protests, as if that could ever convince Athos. Then he pauses. "But I need to talk to her, Athos, if only—" 

"Absolutely out of the question," Athos swiftly cuts him off, feeling like punching him again. 

Something has ignited in his chest, set off by Aramis' continued idiocy. True, he was angrier about the wine than about the Queen last night. True, the pregnancy isn't solely Aramis' fault. True, sparring was a great mean of catharsis for the both of them, like the lancing of a wound. Despite that, Athos now regrets having missed the opportunity to cut off his brother's tongue and genitalia, as he is tired of the nonsense they are prone to cause. Aramis straightens with a wounded and somewhat heated expression, his hands balling up into fists. 

"You don't get it. She's having my baby."

"She's having a baby, which is not yours, can never be yours, and will never be yours," Athos all but snaps. 

The words fall between them like lightning from the Lord, the air cracking from the electricity and leaving both of them staring, dazed. It is the harshest thing he has ever said to any of his brothers, and the second most hurtful thing he has had to do in the name of duty, but there is no way to take the words back. He cannot coddle Aramis. Not in this case, not with what is at stake. The harsh gasp that escapes his friend's lips makes him hate himself for it.

But then Aramis' reply takes him completely by surprise.

"That's not what I meant," Aramis breathes out, and it feels like his heart is bleeding out the words. "She's having _my_ child. She lost her first baby, Isabelle lost mine. What if— What if it was my fault? What if the fact that the child is ours makes it happen again?" 

_Oh._

"Oh, Aramis," Athos manages, scrubbing his hand across his face. 

He wishes he could offer any form of comfort, but he far from sure it would be welcome. Aramis gets up and strides to the window. He stands there ramrod straight, the tremor in his shoulders the only sign betraying the storm that neither wine nor blood could abate currently raging in his soul. 

"I know what you must think," he says, his voice stiff and carefully emptied of all emotion. "I would deserve it."

"I would _never_ think anything of the sort! You cannot dare to question that," Athos retorts fiercely, shooting to his feet.

He doesn't go to Aramis though. 

Aramis shudders and rest his forearm against the glass panel, leaning heavily. He doesn't reply, so Athos decides to press the point.

"Aramis," he insists, "it would not be your fault, and you would not deserve it."

"How can you possibly know that? It happened once already."

There is no good answer to that. They remain silent for a long time, both of them wrestling with their own unruly emotions and treacherous thoughts. How easy it is to talk when the haze of excess or the mist of battle keep sharp tongues from finding their targets and hide hearts from the most painful truths. Of what little came uncovered last night, sweetened as it was by the assurance of steadfast love between the two of them, there is nothing that compares to what is being exposed of Aramis' soul right now.

"Still, it would make everything simpler, wouldn't it?" He whispers at last. 

A heartbroken sixteen year old boy screams in him, asking how he dares. He cannot listen. 

"If Agnes' baby, Henry, had died, things would have been simpler. Did you wish for the boy's death?" Athos asks, sounding calmer than he feels. "Did I? Did any of us?" 

Aramis looks over his shoulder, his eyes terribly pained. 

"He was not the result of treason." 

"He was a threat to the royal power, which is the same thing. And it did not make him any less innocent." Athos pauses, thinking. "My wife wasn't. It would have been simpler – and _safer_ – if I had killed her. Yet none of you wanted me to do it." 

Aramis casts his eyes to the ground, hopelessly ashamed. He has no right to draw comfort from Athos' reassurances, not while he still resents him bitterly for his earlier outburst despite the fact it held only truth, devastating as that may be.

"It is not a sin," Athos finishes earnestly, "to wish for that baby to live. And it won't be a sin to grieve if it dies." 

"But it is still wrong that it should even exist," Aramis says. 

If it's a question, Athos cannot bear to answer it. If it is not, then he cannot argue with the statement. He stays silent, which apparently is enough of an answer to Aramis. He tears himself from the wall and strides towards the door without glancing at Athos. 

_"Merde,"_ the latter mumbles. "Aramis, wait. This was a mistake, we shouldn't have talked." 

He has never been good at this. It should be Porthos standing by their friend's side right now, stern and appeasing in equal parts, a solid rock compared to his own shore sand. What good can possibly come out of this, of him trying to advise his brother in matters of duty and love when that is where he so catastrophically failed? The blind leading the blind.

"You're not responsible for my peace of mind," Aramis says softly, one hand on the doorknob. "And talking is always better." 

He is still wounded to his core by how _right_ Athos is, by the unacceptable reality of things, but he cannot hold his friend guilty for his state of mind. How deep in the shadows would he now be were he alone? This is a Savoy of his own making, and to have somebody by his side is certainly not something he is entitled to. 

"It's not," Athos replies.

So many things would never have happened if people didn't feel the need to talk.

He walks to his friend and rests a hand on the nape of his neck. 

"I'm sorry I didn't anticipate the turn this conversation took." 

Aramis shrugs, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away. Goodness, he doesn't deserve any of them, the people in his life. 

"It's alright," he sighs. "I'm alright." He receives an incredulous look that makes him laughs, if only briefly. "I'm not made of glass, you know." 

"I know," Athos says, feeling a twinge of pride at his brother's steadfastness. "Otherwise you would be in pieces in the courtyard." 

"About that," Aramis scowls, jumping on the opportunity to escape the previous topic, "you really didn't hold back. I'm going to feel this for weeks. And I'm still hungover, by the way." 

"You'll survive." 

Yes, he will. They both will, until somebody notices something, until Aramis gets a bit too careless or too emotionally involved, until the child grows up to be a bit too golden-skinned, a bit too Spanish-looking. Aramis breathes through his nose and banishes the thought from his mind, choosing instead to focus on the warm hand that braces him so steadily. 

"Thanks," he tells Athos for the third time today, genuinely grateful. "For the punches and the talk." 

"You can thank me by buying me a drink later," Athos says, letting go of his friend and leading the way out of the room. 

He feels a bit lighter now, although not as light as right after the sparring session. But none of this is about his own feelings, so it doesn't matter. Patting Aramis between the shoulders, he heads for the courtyard again and doesn't add anything. Still, as he walks down the stairs, Athos cannot stop a cold, familiar voice from murmuring to his ear about that baby's birth.

The truth is, it _would_ make everything simpler. 

* * *

Treville watches with a creased brow as Athos and Aramis emerge from one of the garrison buildings. They're not nearly as relaxed as he would expect given recent events. He quickly reviews their latest achievements, trying to find anything that might explain the tension and the drinking, anything other than just mere "women troubles." They have bested the Cardinal, stopped Milady, the Queen is finally with child and thus safe from the ploys of the likes of Marie de Medici and Richelieu… Try as he may, Treville cannot find a reason for Athos and Aramis' behavior. They do not seem to be having any sort of fight either.

Sighing, he gets back into his office. He can hear some of his men squabbling downstairs, trying to decide whose turn it is to help muck the stables. From what he can make out, Arthur is using François' youth as an excuse to make him do it twice in a row, while the boy loudly argues that it should be Corentin's turn because he hasn't done it in weeks. 

He sits down, takes a quick look at all the paperwork still waiting for him and shakes his head. Aramis is one of the most resilient men he knows, and Athos one of the most responsible when it comes to duty and friendship. No matter what is going on, he can trust them to resolve it. 

Or so he hopes. 

* * *

"I hate nobles," Porthos scowls as he dismounts into the garrison courtyard that evening. "Bunch of prats, all of them."

D'Artagnan laughs and gives him a light shove. 

"Oh, come on. Athos is a comte." 

"Yeah," his friend snorts, purposely looking in Athos' direction and raising his voice, "my point exactly." 

Athos waits for Porthos to sit next to him at their table in the courtyard and then punches him in the arm, scoffing. 

"My thanks," he says wryly.

"Was it that bad?" Aramis inquires, eyes dancing. 

It's not entirely for show.

"Worse," d'Artagnan says with a roll of his eyes. "You should have seen the look on the man's face when we showed up."

Aramis pours some wine into two cups and slides them towards his friends. He is well acquainted with the kind of noblemen they describe. He served under many such people before he joined the musketeers. If he remembers correctly, the last captain he was under in the cavalry was an entitled buffoon who thought embroidered doublets and silk pants were an appropriate outfit for battle. For dueling, maybe. He studies Porthos for a minute, trying to determine if the unpleasant marquis somehow managed to dredge up some old wound. It doesn't appear that way. _Good._

D'Artagnan leans on the table and grins. 

"He asked us if we were nobility. His reaction was priceless."

"Went all white and angry, he did," Porthos mocks. "But he didn't say anything to us after that."

"He just complained aloud about how musketeers standards must have dropped since he'd last heard. Apparently most people believe we're all supposed to be second or third sons of minor lords," d'Artagnan clarifies.

"Well most of the men here are," Aramis says in the spirit of fairness. "Us three here are more the exception than the rule of the regiment."

"Wasn't your father noble?" D'Artagnan asks.

"In a sense, like yours. He was a landowner and he had a particle to his name, and that's about it."

They settle into comfortable silence, nursing their cups. It is by all means a peaceful moment, yet Aramis finds that he cannot fully relax. His actions and his lies are a permanent injury to his spirit, and he fears he might no be able to keep up the façade for very long. And yet he must, because allowing the others to see through his mask would have untold consequences. Next to him, Athos' face is perfectly neutral. Not for the first time, Aramis wonders how it is possible to be so good at keeping secrets. 

Porthos and d'Artagnan seem oblivious to his discomfort as of yet, which somehow makes it worse. He sighs internally and focuses on his drink, slightly gratified to note that moderate drinking appears to be alleviating the remaining symptoms of his reckless overindulgence of before. He doesn't notice when Porthos starts studying him, too engrossed in his own thoughts as he is. 

"Hey, what happened to you?" Porthos asks Aramis, taking his friends aback. He gestures to his own face when he sees their look of incomprehension. "You've got bruises and cuts all over." 

"Rough training," Aramis answers truthfully. "You should see the other guy."

"We're seeing him," d'Artagnan says with that raised eyebrow _he_ definitely picked from Athos. A real epidemic. "He looks just fine." 

Athos actually smirks, the smug prat. 

"What can I say? He is better with guns." 

It makes Porthos and d'Artagnan laugh. Aramis smiles too, and then he gets to his feet with a wince and excuses himself. 

"Sorry, I think I need to lie down," he says. "I'll be in the barracks." 

"What's with him?" D'Artagnan asks Athos hushedly as he goes.

Lucky for him their dear comte is so seasoned in the art of deception, he supposes. And with that, he walks to the nearest door and painstakingly makes his way up a staircase. There is a room here – a cupboard, really – that belongs to him, although he rarely uses it since he has his own apartments outside the garrison. He opens it and throws himself on the bed, groaning. 

He doesn't need to sleep, not really. Or rather, he absolutely does, but he knows that sleep will not come to him. His conversation with Athos keeps playing into his mind, each word etching raw and painful lines into his heart. The pain from what was said and the deep shame that he feels for failing him – all of them – so terribly will not abate. And both actually go deeper than he first expected. 

_It is not a sin to wish for that baby to live. And it won't be a sin to grieve if it dies._

That's what Athos said - the other, truer thing, he cannot bear to think about. But what if that's not the problem? Aramis' heart grows cold at the notion, but he still cannot help but wonder… Was Isabelle somehow right three months ago? Was he relieved when his baby died? Self-disgust overwhelms him and he feels like throwing up, a sensation he has grown quite acquainted with over the course of the day. No, it cannot be true. He would never wish for the death of an innocent, the death of his own flesh and blood.

Still his soul feels dirty, and his heart heavier than ever. _Oh God,_ he cannot help but think, although he's currently far too ashamed to pray. _What have I done?_

He lies awake for what feels like an eternity, tossing and turning restlessly while the sun goes down. Then comes the moment he can't take it anymore. He gets up, shrugs off his pauldron and cloak and lays his hat on the bed. Then he reaches for his belt and sash and unfastens them both, divesting himself of his weapons and of the last distinctive piece of his outfit that identifies him as a King's Musketeer. He keeps his purse, because he plans on using it, and then he's out of the room, sneaking out of the garrison and into the night.

Time to turn his lie of yesterday into a truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't too dialogue heavy. I tried to squeeze in as much introspection as I could, but I don't know... Lemme know how it turned out. 
> 
> Update from last chapter: Okay so I re-checked, and Athos' place *does* have a fireplace, which is sort of visible in ep. 2x09. You can kinda see it in the background of the scene where Treville and his kids are having the "omg Aramis committed treason via procreation" meltdown. Yes, I watched the thing four times in a row to get a glimpse of the hearth.


	3. Bitter as gall. (Proverbs 5:4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are whores, churches, and things are STILL not okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter so I wanted it out of the way quickly. It's dark and awful and terrible and I want to move on to better things, but hey... We can't always have what we want, as Aramis is well aware. You WILL get some real action in the next chapter (finally, some actual musketeer business *-*) as well as Porthos and d'Artagnan *finally* doing stuff.

Porthos turns to Athos as Aramis leaves their table, frowning. 

"What's with him?" D'Artagnan asks, taking the words right out of his mouth. "I thought this was just about a woman." 

Athos nods.

"It is." 

He's not lying, Porthos would be able to tell. Well, that settles it. The affairs of the heart are that kind of things they don't really talk about, and if Athos knows then there really is no need to pry. Something does feel a bit off, but it's Aramis and his ladies – something's always off. 

Porthos'd still better watch out for when Aramis inevitably sneaks out in a few hours. He just hopes he won't have to wake up in the middle of the night to talk some moronic – suicidal, really – husband out of murdering his best friend. Porthos hates duels past ten in the evening. 

* * *

Aramis briefly contemplated taking his horse when he left, but you cannot exactly "sneak out" on an animal the size and weight of a Friesian. Besides, she's too easily identifiable as a Musketeer's steed. So he walks instead, mindlessly, letting his feet carry him where he needs to go. He walks and walks and walks, hopefully in the direction of Saint-Germains des Prés. 

He knows where he is, knows the dirty streets and towering buildings by heart, but he only recognizes things dimly at the moment, dazed and in single-minded pursuit of relief as he is. It's like his memory is under water, if such thing makes sense. 

But he still manages to arrive at that big crossroads where Madame Feyrerette has her apothecary shop with her daughter Julie. He is not there to see them, but as he sees the light upstairs he can't help but let his mind wander. Julie is sweet and rather pretty, with the cool head and practical mind of cévenol women and hands that know hard work. She is also engaged to a shepherd back home, and she happens to be a very proud girl who once told Aramis that she would pelt him with chestnuts still in their burrs – _pelous_ , as they say in the Cévennes – if he tried to seduce her. Those things hurt like the devil and the brittle pricks take forever to get out of your skin, so he never risked it. 

After Adele, before her Majesty, he used to think it was a pity. Now that he thinks about it, it is almost reassuring to know that some women still have enough of a brain not to succumb to his charming grin and flirtatious words. To know that he doesn't hold the fairer sex in his palm like some sort of greek false god. He managed to steal a Queen, after all. 

_No, she's the one who kissed me._

He should introduce Julie to Constance someday.

In any case, that's not Julie he's here for. It's the crossroads. From there on, he has three paths available to him. He can go to the right and walk to the Robin, where's he's sure to find at least two or three Red Guards, he can stay on the straight road and go to church, or he can turn to the left and go to Madame Adonise's. (Church and brawls and brothels, exactly what he discussed with Athos). He is covered in bruises and without weapons, so he's certainly not planning on provoking any Red Guards tonight, but the other two paths are what he came all this way to choose between. 

Yesterday he told Porthos and d'Artagnan that he was seeing somebody and then going to confession. Really, he might as well do both now. 

(Athos' words about searching everywhere _but_ the whorehouses come to mind, unbidden, and he pushes them to the darkest part of his mind and forces himself to forgets about them. What does Athos know about that anyway? He probably hasn't had sex in _years.)_

Madame Adonise's girls are fiery and a bit full of themselves, most of them foreign and unashamed of their line of work, and they're not ones that he can seduce either. No amount of sweet words, delicate caresses and romantic gestures would ever make them fall for him, and that way he can't be guilty of breaking any more hearts. 

Can't make any more Isabelles. 

Adonise knows how to pick them, too. They are all dark and tall – italian women with hair that cascades to their knees, andalusian beauties who are equal only to their moorish sisters, mulatto girls with music in their step and exotic fruits in their smell, and quicksilver Marseillaises who can gut men like they gut fish.

Aramis hasn't known anyone in the biblical sense since the convent, since…

He knows it contributes to his obsession with _her_ , his constant desire to have _her_ with him, nestled in his arms, her soft breathing and beating heart lulling him to sleep. He cannot continue desiring that.

(But he doesn't regret it, can never regret, such an utter fool…)

His mind keeps coming back to what he discussed with Athos, to what he can never have and what he must forget, to the fate of that baby he cannot claim. But he simply can't let go. He can't tear off that bond without ripping his own heart to shreds, can't sever the thread tying him to her Majesty without suffering from the whiplash. So he maybe can just smother his conscience instead, bury his love and soul beneath the kisses and bedroom tricks of unloving women.

And his child, his baby, the one pure and innocent thing that could make him a worthy man, if things were different—

_Sleep, my love, the sun is quite far from the day. Sleep, my sweet, I'll keep the dark at bay… Buenas noches, mi pequeño hijo, mi corazón, buenas noches, mi querida hija… Words I never got to say, will never get to say—_

That baby he has failed even before its birth, that baby he will have failed whether it lives or dies, that baby who makes everything complicated but that Aramis so desperately wishes to hold in his arms. Just. One. Time—

He cannot love that child either. 

_But I already do, I can't—_

He has to sleep it off, in the most carnal sense. If he whores his way through Paris, getting provided for by wealthy widows and spending it all on more demanding – and more fun – ladies of the night, he might just succeed in banishing her Majesty and her pregnancy from his mind.

_Anne— No, don't—_

Who knows, he might even succeed in making one more bastard, one that he is allowed to keep, _if it doesn't die as well._ One more child born in sin and condemned to a childhood of disgusted looks and humiliating taunts.

 _Son of a bitch. Spanish mongrel. Blood so filthy I bet your_ mother _isn't sure if you're really hers. Devil spawn—_

_No doubt a little part of him was relieved when the child was gone and he didn't have to marry. Never one for marriage._

He can make love, sleep, go to confession and do it all over again the next day, until he can only see dark hair and dark eyes, and skin tanned and dusky, instead of the blue eyes and fair complexion and luminous curls that haunt his every waking moment. 

Isabelle was pale, Adele was strawberry blonde, and her Majesty shines like the sun, like light gold. Maybe that's the pattern he has to break to stop falling in love, stop falling, stop failing.

He turns left and continues until he sees the unassuming door that leads to Adonise's establishment. He raises his hand and knocks three times, then pauses, then knocks again. 

Salina opens the door, raising an eyebrow when she recognizes him.

"Haven't seen you around in a long time, my dear," she drawls. She has that fascinating accent he can never quite place. "Last I heard, you were still fooling around with that lady Adele. Your friends finally managed to make you stop seeing her?"

"She left," he answers curtly. "I want to see Adonise."

"That's Madame Adonise to you," Salina tuts, tucking a wayward strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. "Do you have an appointment?" 

He hears giggles and snickers from inside, a few of the girls throwing immodest comments. 

"Let the boy in, Salina, we missed him."

"Such a handsome man, it'd be a pity if he went to Madame Angèle's instead." 

There are some more comments too crude to bear dwelling upon. Salina smirks and tugs him by the arm, drawing him in. The main room is warm and well-lit, filled with expensive furniture and precious fabrics, as he remembers it. He nods at the women whistling and winking at him.

"Adonise isn't here?" He asks Madeleine. 

It's Violette who answers.

"Left to see M'sieur Desmonts, Sabine's in charge."

"I see. Is Maura available?"

_Ana Maria Mauricia— Aramis—_

_Don't—_

"Sure am," she replies, coming down from the stairs on the right, dressed in a shimmering blue nightgown. 

Musketeer blue. 

Athos didn't search the brothels. Maybe he's the fool. Maybe he should have.

His crucifix hangs heavily around his neck.

"Hi," he greets.

"Hi there, soldier. It's been a while. Didn't bring any of your more handsome friends, did you?" 

He snorts and follows her upstairs wordlessly, like a sheep being led to pasture. Easier than to stop and think. She grabs his purse and weighs it in her hand before putting it back, satisfied that he's not here to cheat her. When she sits on the bed and starts pulling the gown down her shoulder, he sits too. But then she stops and eyes him critically.

"You don't look too excited," she remarks with a miffed expression.

_Get out. Get out Aramis get out get out—_

"I had a rough day. That's why I'm here," he counters, narrowing his eyes. 

"Yeah, yeah, sure." 

She pulls him in and gives him a hungry kiss, and the world comes to a stop. Throwing himself back, Aramis breathes harshly, his heart thundering as he realizes what he's doing. He cannot.

Maura huffs.

"Rough day, huh? If I'm not good enough for you, you can just say."

He lets out a shuddering sound, something between a denial and an apology.

"It's not— Maura, I'm…" 

Then she cocks her head and studies him.

"You're in love again, aren't you?" She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "And frustrated. Well, go get her instead of wasting my time. You never had any problems warming up the bed of married ladies."

"It's not that," he blurts out, without knowing why. Perhaps it's because he feels all of six years old again, small and helpless and trusting only the women who work the night and care for bastards like him. "She's pregnant."

"Really, Aramis," Maura sighs as she slaps her forehead with her open palm. "Whoreson like you ought to know better. So what, she's all high and mighty and the kid won't be yours?"

"Yes," he murmurs, broken.

"Tough luck," Maura shrugs sympathetically. "Can't say I'm familiar with the issue, but I suppose it's gotta sting."

Maura has given away all three of her children. The boy to his father, because the man had a good trade and was willing enough to have a son without providing for a wife and an apprentice without having to pay, and the two girls to a convent. His mother did the exact same thing, so it's not like he can condemn either woman. 

And yet for the first time he resents that those mothers should be able to do it, when the mere thought of the separation to come is sunderring his own heart. He thinks of Agnes, of the wound that wouldn't heal that she talked about. What would she think of him now? She had thought him an honorable man, a good one. She would be so utterly repulsed.

Maura gives him a light slap on the shoulder and glares at him, and then at his pants.

"Hey. Either stay and pay or go out by the back door so the girls don't see you. I won't see anyone just yet. Wouldn't want to diminish your reputation here."

"Very considerate, thanks," he manages, getting up. "I'm sorry."

"Honey, you're far from the first one," Maura scoffs. "And I usually take their money anyway. At least it's your heart that's the problem, not your manhood." 

He manages to smile at that. She kisses him on the cheek, like a sister, and she pushes him towards the curtain that hides the door. 

"Go get drunk or fight, you idiot, or see a girl that looks like her. I can't help you."

And then he's out into the street again.

Thank God. 

How interesting, Aramis takes the time to ponder, that Athos should know him better than he knows himself. He really should listen to him more.

In any case, Maura was definitely right about that last part – she can't help him. As for her advice, it's rubbish, he already established that. Instead he goes to church. That's the last thing he hasn't tried, the one last resort that has always worked, but that he fears this time won't. 

* * *

The wooden doors are heavy and hard to push open, unwelcoming. Aramis enters the church slowly, signing himself and treading on the holy floor like Moses approached the burning bush, with reverence and fear. He holds onto his pendant.

The benches are all empty, unsurprisingly, the edifice far too silent and too cold. As he looks to the statue of the Lord, nailed to the Holy Cross, he wonders where God is that His house should feel so like a tomb. But Aramis knows the confessional isn't empty, even at this hour, and that's what he goes to.

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," he says as he signs himself again, a reflex more than a sentiment. 

"What is your sin, my son?" The priest asks tonelessly from behind the dividing lattice.

"My sins, father," Aramis wearily replies, leaning back, "are numerous."

The priest doesn't say anything, waiting for him to continue. Maybe it's out of respect, although indifference seems more likely. The thought makes Aramis feel cold, distant. 

"I have committed adultery and lain with a married woman, and she is now pregnant. And I have lied to my brothers about it."

"Is that all?" Comes the laconic reply.

"I am afraid that the child might die because of me."

"Why?"

Aramis goes to confess after every mission. He is, as one might put it, up to date with his own sin, and he doesn't usually feel the need to repeat what he has already said to another priest. Tonight though, he does. If only to get a reaction out of the man supposed to counsel and guide him.

"When I was young, I made a girl pregnant. She lost our baby, and she went away instead of marrying me like we had agreed on. And then she died at the hands of men who had pursued me to her doorstep. And now I desire the wife of another, a man of high status, and she too lost her first baby."

"I see," the priest answers, his voice empty of any distinguishable emotion. "And you are not prepared to accept the outcome should the offspring perish?"

Offspring? They are not talking about dogs or horses, are they?

"I am not _willing_ to accept it," Aramis all but snarls. "I am afraid of what it would say about me, about the state of my soul."

"That you despise sin in all its incarnations and that you understand that its birth would be not be righteous or desirable."

Aramis' breath catches, like it did when Athos had nothing to say when presented with that same last argument. But it has to be wrong. Surely, if Athos protested the rest of Aramis' fears and regrets, it has to be wrong.

"So I'm wrong to feel guilty because I'm afraid that I might not want him to live? I should feel guilty that I _want_ him to live?" He attempts to clarify, building on what he and Athos had argued on. 

This time around, he desperately want to be convinced by his brother's views on the situation.

"David and Batsheba's child, the child of adultery and murder, died in infancy. Would you question God's wisdom on the matter?"

Oh. _Oh._ He hadn't given a thought to that. It is a sound argument, one might think, based on Scriptures and summarizing his situation rather well. It also makes him want to scream, or shoot something. But he really is no better than David, is he? Aramis has been with countless prostitutes, married women, mistresses of other men and innocent maidens, while David was at least married to most of the people he bedded. He is a soldier and he has killed, including fellow Frenchmen and Catholics, he has disobeyed more orders than he can recall, and he has even lied to his own King several times regarding affairs of state, and he has committed treason. Meanwhile, David _was_ the King, and before that he protected the first King, Saul, with devotion and loyalty despite the man's endless schemes to kill him. 

If it's a competition, Aramis isn't winning.

"You are a great sinner indeed," the priest carries on, "but our most Holy Lord is pleased when we confess our tresspasses and humbly ask for His gracious forgiveness."

Right on all counts, so Aramis waits expectantly.

"You are not without knowing, of course," the man continues, "that sins such as these can only be expiated by justly deserved labor in purgatory…"

 _Ah_. 

"But didn't our Lord forgive the adulterous woman on the spot?" Aramis asks rather desperately, because _strangely enough_ the promise of future punishment isn't helping at all with his immediate need for atonement and reassurance. 

The priest sniffs offendedly, displeased both by the comment and the interruption, which immediately makes Aramis tense up.

"It is not for us to know what became of that woman in the afterlife. But since you are so keen to question the wisdom of the Church and the Scriptures, perhaps you should remember what she was told. "Go," our Lord Jesus said to her, "and _sin no more_." It seems clear to me that you may only show true repentance in the following way. First, you must tell the truth of the matter to the husband—"

_What? No, I can't—_

"I cannot—"

"—as urgently as possible, for the magnitude of this lie cannot suffer delay. You must cease all communication with the woman,"

_I'm her soldier, her protector, I cannot—_

"and forego all claims to the child should the husband decide to claim it as his own. You must tell the truth to your brothers as well, and to any that you might have deceived,"

_And condemn them? Father, wait—_

"you must cease to lie with women until you are properly married to one in the eyes of God, Church and State, you must fast for a fortnight to atone for your drunken revelry,"

_But I can't marry her! She—_

"and finally, you must present yourself to your superiors and reveal to them the full measure of your disobedience, submitting yourself to any and all punishment they will deem fitting."

"Father…" Aramis tries to say, to protest, to explain. "Those things, they are impossible."

"Only for the unrepentant heart. No go and pray the entire rosary, and swear to do these things, or I shall not give you absolution." 

_"I can't!"_ Aramis cries out, because the man need to _understand_. 

"Then get out, and carry your fault with you."

Aramis shoots to his feet and walks away, heart thumping against his chest so hard it's painful. As he flees, he catches a whiff of perfume, scented candles mixed with sweet roses and rare and expensive orange blossoms. He knows that smell.

Now is not the time though, and he stumbles out of Saint-Germains-des-Prés as fast as he can, and soon arrives nears the banks of the Seine. He drops to the ground there, drawing his knees to his chest and staring at the dark waters with a shudder. They are never calm or inviting, and he leans back even though he is in no danger of falling.

This is a relatively quiet spot, a few streets removed from most of the crowded taverns and docks that are bustling even at this hour, and it feels safer, but not better.

Aramis looks at his hands, grey in the darkness of the night. There is still no moon. Plenty of stars though. Their comfort seems pale now that God Himself has forsaken him, all his fears and misgiving about going to confess proven correct. 

"What shall I do, if even Your servants turn me away?" Aramis asks desperately. 

Then he thinks of orange blossoms, and something clicks. 

Adonise, gone to see "Monsieur Desmonts." That church, smelling like her. And that priest. 

_What's his name again? Isn't it…_

"… Desvaux," Aramis growls aloud. "Father Desvaux." 

There is a saying that goes: _par_ _monts et par vaux._ Over hill and dale. Clever nickname, if a bit easy to figure out.

That hypocritical _bastard,_ sent to lead God's people like a shepherd and instead choosing to cast stones when he's the first of the sinners! Oh, their Lord Jesus-Christ forgave the adulterous woman alright, after every single one of the men who had brought her before him left in shame when asked if they were without wrongdoings

Romans 2 comes to his mind, and he promises himself to read it again tomorrow morning, or even tonight if he can. 

Somehow, even though he knows it's blasphemy and heresy, he feels better from the knowledge that Father Desvaux is thus acquainted with Adonise. Who cares about what the man has to say on God then? Who cares if he thinks Aramis shouldn't love his Queen and baby – his _son_ , because a mother knows best – and shouldn't try to protect them? Who cares if he thinks confessing is the only way to resolve things?

A little voice murmurs to Aramis that truth shouldn't be rejected because it is given by someone unholy. People possessed by demons recognized the Lord as the Christ, the Savior of the world, and it was the truth. He ignores the voice. 

In this case, the man is wrong, and telling people about his affair will do no good. It won't help his soul, and it will condemn her Majesty and her child, and ruin France. It could even spark a war with Spain, which would cause the death of thousands. He cannot ever risk that.

Feeling vindicated, he watches the water for a long time, lost in endless contemplation. God will show him what to to, _if_ he even needs to do anything. As for that lying swine of a priest, he is never setting foot into the man's church again. He kisses his rosary and loses himself to the thought that her Majesty might have often done the same, when it adorned her own – slender, graceful, unblemished – neck. He closes his eyes and imagines his son resting against his chest, born alive and strong, and handsome, and so tiny and perfect. 

Still, as he walks home, he feels troubled. It is unsurprising given how poorly his two coping methods of choice failed. Perhaps he should write to Father Christophe, back home. Or perhaps he should just bottle up his emotions until he has learned to control them and carry on with his life as normal, Athos and d'Artagnan by his side and Porthos watching his back, everything well and good in the world. 

* * *

Porthos watches from his window as Aramis sneaks back into the garrison earlier than he would have expected. He is alone and doesn't look injured or in any hurry, so it seems safe enough to assume nobody died. At least, he hopes. Maybe he should check up on him anyway, just to be sure. 

He waits for the sound of a door opening and then closing, and he quietly slips out of his own room to go press an ear to the thick wall that separates Aramis' room from the hallway. He can dimly make out rustling paper and latin stuff. Guess that means Aramis is reading his bible. Good then. He'll probably feel alright once he's done. Porthos slips back into his room, satisfied, and goes to sleep. 

* * *

When Aramis picks up his bible from the shelf in the bedroom he has in the garrison, he fully intends to read Romans 2. Yet instead, his fingers turn the pages back until he's reading from Proverbs, dozens of books separating the two. His eyes land between Proverbs 5 and 6. 

_"May your fountain be blessed, and may you rejoice in the wife of your youth. A loving doe, a graceful deer— may her breasts satisfy you always, may you ever be intoxicated with her love. Why, my son, be intoxicated with another man’s wife? Why embrace the bosom of a wayward woman? For your ways are in full view of the LORD, and he examines all your paths. The evil deeds of the wicked ensnare them; the cords of their sins hold them fast. For lack of discipline they will die, led astray by their own great folly."_

His breath hitches, his gaze dancing over the words, registering only snatches of information before it arrives to chapter 6.

_"My son, keep your father’s command and do not forsake your mother’s teaching. Bind them always on your heart; fasten them around your neck. When you walk, they will guide you; when you sleep, they will watch over you; when you awake, they will speak to you. For this command is a lamp, this teaching is a light, and correction and instruction are the way to life, keeping you from your neighbor’s wife, from the smooth talk of a wayward woman._

_Do not lust in your heart after her beauty or let her captivate you with her eyes. For a prostitute can be had for a loaf of bread, but another man’s wife preys on your very life. Can a man scoop fire into his lap without his clothes being burned? Can a man walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched? So is he who sleeps with another man’s wife; no one who touches her will go unpunished._

_People do not despise a thief if he steals to satisfy his hunger when he is starving. Yet if he is caught, he must pay sevenfold, though it costs him all the wealth of his house. But a man who commits adultery has no sense; whoever does so destroys himself. Blows and disgrace are his lot, and his shame will never be wiped away._ _For jealousy arouses a husband’s fury, and he will show no mercy when he takes revenge. He will not accept any compensation; he will refuse a bribe, however great it is."_

For one moment Aramis considers throwing the book away and falling to his knees, and begging for forgiveness and wisdom until dawn. But something bitter twists within his chest, an odd mixture of anger and guilt, and dark cynicism.

"Well the love of my youth is dead despite being Your servant," he bites out, "my father's command was never to keep away from prostitutes, as he wasn't a hypocrite, and my mother's teaching was that anyone was fair game, as long as they were willing to pay and not given to unnatural practices. How's that for wisdom?"

Still he weeps like a child that night, curled up into a ball with his pillow held tightly against his chest and his crucifix clutched in his right hand. The sobs wracking his body keep him awake from a long time, until he finally succumbs to exhaustion. When Porthos comes to get him with the orders for their next mission less than two hours later, the trails left by his tears have just finished drying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "cévenol" = from the Cévennes, a mountainous region of southern France known for being the heart of Huguenot faith (we'll come back to that), with lots of chestnut trees, small villages, wild boars (gosh, so many of them), peculiar names for everything and everyone and a quite pronounced accent. 
> 
> "Buenas noches, mi pequeño hijo, mi corazón, buenas noches, mi querida hija" = good night, my little son, my (sweet)heart, good night, my darling daughter
> 
> So to be clear, Father Desvaux' views are not my own, nor are they anybody's in particular. I'll address what *was* biblical (and actually good for Aramis in the current situation) and what was rubbish later in the story. Next chapter is about a REAL MISSION, YAY!  
> If you're curious, Romans 2 is a very, VERY passionate letter from the New Testament about condemning those who sin and boasting about upholding the Law of God (Jewish Torah) while doing the exact same thing that they're doing, only in secret. It doesn't cut corners, and rightly so, and it was written by the man you've probably heard of as St-Paul. I would have included it but this chapter and those author notes are long enough as it is. 
> 
> The two passages from Proverbs are Proverbs 5:18-22 and Proverbs 6:20-35 according to the New International Translation - the KJV one would have been more appropriate but it's ten times harder to understand lol. Oh and if you're surprised by the graphic sexual imagery coming from the *Bible*... Well fam, you ain't seen nothing yet.
> 
> Continuing the fireplace saga: I have just realized that Athos' bedroom in 1x01 is not the same as in 2x05 and 2x09. In 1x01, we're seeing his outside-garrison place. In season 2, the one in which you can glimpse at the fireplace, his room is *in* the garrison. So I'm back to square one with my fireplace hunting. Ugh.


	4. Clear the way. (Isaiah 40:3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is bright, the roads are empty, and there are, as always, bad feelings to be had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeaaaah, so this took longer that I expected. Sadly college is a thing, people. So I was planning on writing a mega chapter that encompasses all of the mission and leaving you with a cliffhanger, but nah. I'm saving the action (and the cliffhanger) for the next time (and hopefully that's in two days top). This has been a rather depressing story so far and our boys deserve some sunshine and mostly carefree bantering.

They ride out in the sun, the day bright and blue and the air clean and refreshing.

The weather is so nice and the morning so radiant that all four musketeers would be in high spirits, if not for the tediousness – and possible danger – of the mission at hand. They're not _too_ unhappy as it is, or at least not unhappy about their duty, but it would still have been nice to enjoy a few more days of carefree loitering. Instead, they are to investigate rumors of highway thieves and bandits robbing and plundering along the main roads leading to Paris, as quickly and efficiently as possible.

_Ugh._

"Why is it always us doing that sort of stuff?" D'Artagnan complains without any real bite, spurring his horse forward when it decides to fall behind because of the lack of enthusiasm of its rider. "Couldn't the Red Guards deal with it? You know, be useful for once?" 

Porthos snorts.

"Yeah, like we can trust 'em to actually root out the brigands instead of making friends with them. Or, you know, getting killed."

It makes d'Artagnan laugh, and Athos inwardly rolls his eyes but allows an amused look to pass over his face. 

"Would you rather be riding all around the country fetching nobility?" He asks pointedly. 

All three of his friends shudder, giving each others wide-eyed looks and somewhat disgusted expressions.

"And they're _all_ invited to that damn party," Porthos sighs.

"Marie de Medici," d'Artagnan frowns.

"Gaston d'Orléans," Porthos huffs.

"The Duke and Duchess of Savoy," Athos adds wearily.

The finest scum in all the land. Except maybe for the Duchess, but she'll probably be the only half-decent person invited to the week-long feast the King is throwing next month to celebrate his wife's pregnancy. 

"Can't understand why the King would gather so many snakes in the same place," Porthos grumbles.

"In his defense," Aramis says, because it's important to judge fairly, "he doesn't know what they've done. And since we all played a part in covering up the Duke's actions and Marie de Medici's plot, it's our fault he is still on good terms with them." 

D'Artagnan rubs the back of his neck and half-shrugs.

"Can't argue with you there," he mumbles sheepishly. "I'm still really glad we're not the one escorting any of them to the palace."

His words are met with wholehearted agreement. 

"Think the King and Queen of Spain will show up?" Porthos asks after a while. "What with the baby being twice their niece or nephew?" 

"I would be very surprised. They certainly won't be here if England sends representatives, for one thing. But I can't see King Charles being bothered," Athos scoffs.

Those petty feuds between the great families of Europe have always baffled him. King Charles is married to Queen Henrietta Maria, the sister of King Louis and Elizabeth of France, Queen Elizabeth being the wife of King Philip, himself the brother of Queen Anne, King Louis' wife. Add to that Philip and Anne's sister Maria, herself married to the Holy Roman Emperor, as well as other many other connections through cousins and grandparents, all the way to Portugal, Hungary and Germany, and you end up with a proper familial mess that should ensure everlasting peace throughout all of Europe but only makes for more wars and hatred. It's puzzling, really.

Although Catherine _is_ his second cousin once removed, so it's not like the d'Athos de la Fère have any business judging the royal families. His own parents were distantly related as well.

 _At least,_ a small annoying voice whispers at the very edge of his mind, _her Majesty's child will have the advantage of some fresh blood, instead of being hopelessly inbred._

The thought very nearly sends him spluttering. There is nothing funny about their situation, not a single thing. He has to tell himself that several times before the urge to laugh derisively dies out. And while he's thinking about it, he casts a glance in Aramis' direction. 

While he is sitting very stiffly in his saddle — courtesy of their lively sparring session of yesterday, no doubt — he presents no apparent signs of hangover, and Athos is certain his friend wouldn't be stupid enough to try the same idiocy two nights in a row. And yet who can be sure with him? By the looks of it, Athos is still justified in being convinced that Aramis didn't go quietly to bed to have a good night's rest. There are dark circles under his eyes betraying that he either didn't sleep at all or went out — alone. They'll have to talk about it.

_Talk._

It's really all they seem to be doing, these days. 

Athos sincerely wishes he had less qualms about throttling his friend. He despises deep and meaningful conversations and how emotionally taxing they are. It's annoying, really, how much he has to put of with in the name of loyalty and friendship.

D'Artagnan whines again. 

"We haven't seen anyone for miles. And there are only rumors of bandits, nobody's actually taken it up to the authorities. Why does everybody have to be so worried all the time?" 

"Oi, stop complaining," Porthos berates good-humoredly. "Investigatin' highway bandits is how we met you, ain't it? Who knows, we might find another pup along the way."

"Hey!"

Aramis twists in his saddle to take a good look at d'Artagnan and grins.

"Don't be mean to the boy, Porthos," he says admonishingly. "He'll think that you don't like him anymore and that you want to replace him now that he's all grown up."

"Aramis!" 

"He's not quite grown up, I'd say. Can't even grow a proper beard yet."

 _"Porthos!"_

On the other hand, without friendship Athos would miss on the free entertainment. Life is about compromises, he supposes. 

They ride on, wind in their faces and morning light raining on them like liquid warmth. 

* * *

"Look," d'Artagnan says at some point, gesturing toward the side of the road. "Something happened here." 

Indeed, there are broken branches in the sparse trees and trampled weeds a few yards from the path. As they ride closer and take a look, Porthos is the first to spot the rusty splatters of blood, dry but that cannot be too old. Dew, animals and rain usually make quick work of erasing such traces. 

It's not conclusive evidence that the rumors were true, however, and it simply means that they now have to actually investigate instead of riding aimlessly while hoping to find something.

"How far away is the next village?" Athos asks.

"Hmm, two or three miles, maybe?" Porthos ventures. 

Far enough to make this spot dangerously isolated. The terrain allows for plenty of hiding places as well. Aramis and d'Artagnan dismount and inspect the scene carefully, their weapons primed and ready to use. Their horses neigh softly and paw the ground, aware of their riders' tension and anxious because of it.

There are traces of struggle but no great patches of blood, and no continued trail of trampled ground and broken branches. No signs of animal presence either – neither hoof nor paw, claw mark, skin, feather nor fur.

"Doesn't look like poaching," d'Artagnan sighs. "The trail wouldn't stop here."

"I agree," Aramis says with a nod, turning to address Porthos and Athos. "Somebody was attacked. Probably not many injuries or casualties, judging by the amount of blood. This is barely enough to account for a broken nose or a split lip."

"But shots were fired," d'Artagnan frowns, gesturing to the nearby trees. He crouches and pick something up, and then hold it up for the others to see. "Musket ball. Perhaps the rest of the blood was just washed away by the morning dew?" 

"No, you would still see red mud."

They get back on their impatient horses, patting the mares on the neck gently and allowing them a few bites of grass. Athos tilts his head back and sighs, then eyes the ground. There are too many hoof prints and carriage tracks to follow, the road being regularly used, which means they either have to continue on the main road and hope for another clue, or they must go to the village and ask questions. And of course, he's the one that will have to choose.

He often wonders why it is him that is always called upon to make that kind of decisions, between the four of them. It cannot be on account of his noble blood, since Aramis and Porthos were unaware of it for years, and it's probably not because of the stellar example he sets either. Seniority would be a valid reason, but Aramis has been a soldier for almost twice as long as Athos. 

Today, more than other days, it bothers him. Perhaps he is still off-balance from the whole situation with the Queen, unsettled by his short-sightedness and his very near failure to protect her Majesty three months ago. The many ways the more recent plan to get rid of Milady and expose the Cardinal could have gone wrong might also be a factor.

When all three of his companions turn to him with expectant looks, it strikes him as undeserved and burdensome, when it is usually perceived as perfectly natural.

He doesn't hesitate though. He never does. 

"We ride to the village and ask questions."

They all immediately spur their horses onward, the thought of questioning his judgement never crossing their minds. Perhaps it shouldn't. This is a quite straightforward and hopefully easy mission, the likes of which he has led dozens if not hundreds without failing in his duty. There is no reason to believe today should be any different.

 _Famous last thought,_ he still can't help but mock as he urges his steed on, getting it to galop. 

* * *

Aramis rides almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Porthos, their horses so used to each other's company that they naturally fall in step on the path. It's reassuring. A proof that things have not changed – _they have, they absolutely have_ – and that their friendship does not suffer from Aramis' hidden fault. The brightness of the sun reinforces that feeling of safety and belonging as it contrasts sharply with the last two days, during which most of the significant things that happened to him took place at night and indoors.

He lets himself be lulled into that peace of mind, rocking in concert with his mare's steady canter. His muscles protest, soreness having settled in as a result of his training with Athos and following midnight stroll, but they are easily ignored in favor of the soothing familiarity of the action. He probably shouldn't get too comfortable though. He is short on rest, and falling asleep in the saddle is about the fastest and most stupid way to get a concussion.

"You okay?" Porthos suddenly asks, quite out of the blue, his glance showing worry when his words don't.

Aramis blinks in surprise – partly to get the urge to slumber out of his eyelids.

"Why wouldn't I be?" He replies, keeping the confusion obvious in his tone. 

"Dunno, you tell me," his friend says as he narrows his eyes, giving him a sharp look. "You've been off for a couple o' days."

Ah, yes. How foolish of him to think that his best friend wouldn't notice his unraveling. Aramis continues to demonstrate his complete and utter foolishness, as though there ever was any doubt. At this point, perhaps he should just write himself a note that says "you clueless simpleton" and read it every time he's about to say or do anything. He leans back and fiddles with his hat, weary of his own damn self. 

He could try to come up with another excuse, but it won't work, and Porthos will only end up more suspicious and worried. So it's like Athos said yesterday, no need to lie. So he tells the truth, as much of it as he can divulge without making his friend guilty of treason by association.

"I haven't been sleeping well," he mumbles tiredly. "And I've been having some… struggles with my faith."

"You?" Porthos says, clearly taken aback. His eyes dart to the gold crucifix and he frowns. "'M afraid I can't really help with that." 

"Don't worry about it," Aramis shrugs as he orders the voice of his conscience to just _shut up._ "It's nothing too serious."

And there it is, the slip of the tongue that turns a semi-truth into a bald-faced lie. It is quite frightening, how one deception cannot suffer to be alone. It grows and breeds smaller lies and soon your whole life is entangled in them. Goodness, it's only been two days since the Queen's announcement too. Two _days._ And this is a secret he is meant to keep for years? 

Until he _dies?_

He has been staring off into the distance for perhaps longer than he should have, because Porthos clears his throat and gives him another look.

"Aramis, when you say "trouble sleeping," are you havin' nightmares?" 

An issue they're all familiar with. If only. Nightmares, Aramis can deal with. Insomnia is not quite the same thing. 

"I'm fine," he lies again. 

Porthos lightly punches his shoulder with an unimpressed snort.

"Yeah, right. And the truth?"

 _Liar, liar, liar,_ his conscience sings mercilessly. His shoulder is unhappy too, still bruised from his training round with Athos.

Aramis sighs.

"I'm dealing with it, don't worry." Then he grins, and it's genuine. "You're a huge mother hen, you know that?"

And the deflection works its magic. Porthos throws his head back and laughs warmly, and then gives him another shove.

"Someone has to be. 'S not like I can trust any of you idiots to take care of yourselves."

Well, he's certainly right on that account. Aramis smiles and it's the end of it. Almost.

"I'm the one stitching us back together."

"Doesn't count." 

"What do you mean, it doesn't count? It does!" 

And they bicker all the way to the village, Athos tuning them out before they drive him mad – a bit of a lie, they're not actually that bad – and d'Artagnan listening eagerly for any embarrassing story or interesting anecdote. God forbid, Athos can't help but think, that any of them start behaving like soldiers unless they're facing a direct threat. 

He has overheard Aramis' conversation with Porthos, and the need to confront him about last night is suddenly more urgent. If Aramis – pious, prime candidate for sainthood if he could just keep away from guns and ladies Aramis, _the Lord's favorite Aramis_ – is confused and shaken up to the point of questioning his beliefs in God, the Bible or the Church, they are facing a great problem. The burden of knowledge that must be borne for the sake of the Queen and France cannot suffer wavering shoulders. And so whatever the reasons for Aramis' loss of confidence, it cannot continue.

It's ironic. Athos has long stopped going to mass, even on Easter or Christmas, and here he is worrying about the faith of another man, a man who reduced him to prayer not two days ago. Good God, life can be strange.

(He has a bad feeling about this.)

They soon arrive to the village, just as the bell tower tolls for midday. Since they are here without a clear idea of who they must speak to and what they must do, Athos gets off his horse and invites the others to do the same. Looking imposing and staring down at people is only good when it's a matter of getting answers out of them. When it comes to finding out what questions must be asked, appearing trustworthy and human is always a better strategy. 

The village is small, with dirt paths and wooden houses, swines, chickens and goats roaming free. The place can be found on some maps, but Athos can't for the life of him remember its name or the name of its liege lord – the one whose bloody men would be taking care of those bandits allegations if it weren't for the royal party and the truly _touching_ faith the King has in his Musketeers. If he ever cares enough to find out who that lord is, Athos will have to give him a piece of his mind. 

"Pardon me, my lady," he hears Aramis say charmingly. _Oh, for the love of—_ "I am terribly sorry to disturb you. Do you know where we can find the mayor?" 

Athos spins around, ready to wrench the man from whomever he's flirting with, and almost slaps his hand to his forehead when he realizes Aramis is speaking to an elderly lady with white hair and a shawl whiter still. 

_Why?_ Why _is he like that?_

There are some obvious reasons that are too dark or intrusive to dwell on, so Athos settles for the simple idea that his brother is a true and irremediable idiot. It has been previously established and many times proven. 

The charming act seems to work, in any case. The old woman smiles at them warmly and raises a weathered finger towards one of the nicer homes, tucked under three large oak trees near the church. Aramis bows in thanks, the sycophant, his hat pressed to his heart. D'Artagnan and Porthos are rolling their eyes behind him. 

Athos raises an eyebrow as he makes eye contact with Aramis, waiting for the inevitable excuse.

"I like to be polite," his friend simply offers, a playful look about him.

Complete and utter fool, truly. 

"Why didn't you ask her if anyone from the village is missing or was attacked?" He still inquires curiously as they walk away, voice barely above a whisper.

Aramis cocks his head to the side, like it's obvious.

"She might know things, but we have no guarantee that she would be interested in actually helping us."

That gets Porthos and d'Artagnan's attention, the both of them narrowing their eyes.

"What do you mean?" Their youngest asks, intrigued.

"Think about it," Aramis elaborates. "We know nothing about what's going on on the road. If it's an organized gang, they're covering their tracks well, meaning they must have connections."

"Oh," Porthos nods. "And if it's just a couple of men, they might still have family or friends in the area." 

"And it's not a crime for a doddering old lady to give misleading information," d'Artagnan continues, impressed.

"Whereas a mayor lying to the King's men is signing his own death warrant," Athos finishes, pleased with Aramis' quick thinking. "This way nobody knows why we're here yet." 

"But you don't _actually_ think that old lady's got anything to do with it, do you?" D'Artagnan still asks, both eyebrows raised.

"Don't be ridiculous," Aramis scoffs. "She's a nice grandmother out on a stroll. I'm just being careful."

And Athos remembers Aramis is a soldier through and through, and the memories of him completely drunk, desperately vulnerable or frighteningly despondent are easier to bear. He endured the loss of a child and fiancée, the terrors of wars and sieges, Savoy, the death of Marsac at his own hands and countless other trials. Surely he will endure this— _this_. 

(The bad feeling won't go away.)

He knocks on the mayor's door first and sighs when nobody answers. Knocks a second time.

"What do you want?" A gruff voice inquires, just shy of rudely. 

"We are here on business of the King," Athos replies, and that's the sentence that opens doors. 

This one is no exception. A stout man of perhaps forty years greets them, his hair and beard already grey and his eyes disturbingly black in contrast. He studies the four of them suspiciously for a moment. As he notices the blue cloaks and black horses, his expression lightens and he steps forward.

"You're Musketeers," he says with relief. "Finally. I thought they'd never send you." Then he dips his chin in greeting and cards a hand through his hair. "I'm Clavieux, the mayor of this village." 

Porthos and Aramis exchange confused glances.

"You were expecting us?" Athos attempts to clarify.

"Sure was," Clavieux huffs. "For a while now. I sent several letters to Paris, never got my answer. You're here for the people getting robbed on the road, aren't you?"

If there ever was a time to let out a collective groan… 

"I don't know if the letters ever arrived," Aramis says with a shake of his head, "but we heard rumors, yes. Why didn't your liege lord inform us himself?"

"He's at court," the man snorts. "Has been for a while now."

Athos frowns and turns to d'Artagnan. 

"The marquis you escorted yesterday, was he…?" 

"No," d'Artagnan answers before he can finish, "his lands are way further south, and his important royal business was something about taxes."

Good. Convoluted plots and schemes are something one grows used to after so long going toe to toe with Cardinal Richelieu, but they're never enjoyable. 

"So what's that robbing business?" Porthos asks. "Just regular thieving?"

Clavieux shrugs.

"Seems like it. They only ever attack poor folks and disreputable characters that are too frightened to come to me or anyone else. I don't have any men, nothing much I can do about it. There haven't been any serious injuries or any deaths yet, so I guess it could be worse."

"How do you know nobody was killed?" Athos asks.

"Haven't found any dead bodies yet. It's not that easy to get rid of a corpse here. We've got dogs with a good sense of smell, they'd have at least dug up a bone." 

Fair enough. 

"Do you know where they appear to be most active?"

"East of here, about a mile and a half away."

Athos nods and thanks for the mayor for the information.

"We split up," he tells his companions. "Two of us go back to what we've already found and try to track them down from there. The other two go look for them on the road."

And before he can suggest he takes Aramis with him, Porthos has snatched their marksman and is dragging him to the horses.

Damn.

"See you later," Porthos says over his shoulder. "First back into the village goes to look for the others?"

"Yes" Athos agrees. "And be careful. I have a bad feeling about this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah this is rushed, I'm sorry TT–TT Anyways, the problem with this chapter is that I started it with basically no idea of what I was going to put in it because all my ideas are for the ending of the mission since it's the only part bearing relevance to the greater plot. This is gap-filler supreme. Also it's like 1 am right now. Ugh. 
> 
> Fireplace update: I'm starting to think that hearth you can catch glimpses of in Athos' garrison room might actually be some sort of in wall bookshelf. I'm confused and spending too much time thinking about it.


End file.
